


Defense of the Apartments

by zunshtral



Category: Defense of the Ancients | Dota, Dota 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apartment Building, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brief Mention of Blood, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Found Families, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Implied Sexual Content, Jewish Characters, M/M, Mentally Ill Characters, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Trans Characters, a lil bit, an excess of dogs, an excess of snakes, mentions of negligent parents, the apartment is practically a college dorm but its alright, this is 100 percent fueled by headcanons, warning for future google translated spanish/russian/japanese/etc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7584958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zunshtral/pseuds/zunshtral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karroch is also pretty sure that the one closed door nearby belongs to the new tenant, who, as far as he can tell, isn’t actually at the party.</p><p>He doesn’t exactly blame them. Being introduced to your neighbors while they were all varying degrees of drunk and running rampant in the building was pretty daunting. He remembers his own move-in party, where the fire alarm ended up getting set off and everything in the hall got soaked after Huskar dropped a cigarette. They had all ended up sitting outside in the yard, where Lyralei had shown everyone how to make flower crowns from daisies and dandelions. Huskar apologized for a week straight afterwards, promising personally to Karroch that he wouldn’t smoke at parties anymore.</p><p>Not that he’s actually stuck to that promise, as evidenced by the distant, ‘J, baby, where’s my lighter?’ </p><p>Oh well.</p><p>[DISCONTINUED]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Funny the way it is

Karroch is at a party.

To be completely fair, there’s almost always a party happening in the Radiant Apartment -- either for trivial reasons that really didn’t warrant anything more than a pat on the back, or for holidays that stuffed way too many people into one suite and kept the doors open for hours.

New tenant parties were always the biggest, though. Everyone seemed to flock to the second floor, propping their doors open with chairs or stacks of mismatched books. People would set out food in their kitchens and pile six-packs of shitty beer against the hallway walls for anyone to grab. Most of the suites were similar enough that navigating someone else’s was never an issue, and almost no one actually ended up hanging out in their own apartment for more than a few moments. An iPhone dock always gets set up somewhere, borrowed from whoever can grab theirs first and fight over plugging it in. Karroch has seen a few bloody noses from wrestling that’s gone a bit too far, but the victim is always ushered into the nearest bathroom, followed by a mix of concern and laughter.

Karroch is pretty sure that setting up beer pong in the hallway was against a few lease rules, or general apartment building laws. _Thou shall not engage in college frat games while stuffed into one narrow hallway_ , or something like that.

He’s had a couple shitty beers, though, and watching Yurnero attempting to teach Traxex how to play and promptly getting his ass handed to him is pretty hilarious.

The music is coming from a couple doors down -- it’s evident from the half-garbled Spanish that Huskar’s gotten ahold on the iPhone dock. Karroch isn’t sure if anyone in the apartment _besides_ Huskar actually understands it, but the beat is generic enough that dancing wouldn’t be an issue. Not that there’s room to dance in the hallway, but if someone really wanted to, he supposed they’d find the space. No one really dares to try dancing around Mortred, though, at least not until she’s also tipsy.

Someone had dragged their couch halfway into the doorway, and Karroch watches as Sven desperately and awkwardly tries to crawl over the back and get into Mirana’s apartment for some kind of hiding spot while Rylai tries to climb after him. Someone whistles from across the hall, which brings a ripple of laughter through the floor.

Karroch is pretty sure Lyralei has found her bow, despite Aiushtha’s best efforts to hide it before the girl had even opened her first can of beer. Traxex is grinning, though, so there’s no real mystery to how exactly Lyralei found it.

A football goes sailing over the head of everyone in the hallway. Yurnero tries to jump and bat it out of the air, but it flies on and someone he can’t see lets out an overjoyed yell.

Karroch is also pretty sure that the one closed door nearby belongs to the new tenant, who, as far as he can tell, isn’t actually at the party.

He doesn’t exactly blame them. Being introduced to your neighbors while they were all varying degrees of drunk and running rampant in the building was pretty daunting. He remembers his own move-in party, where the fire alarm ended up getting set off and everything in the hall got soaked after Huskar dropped a cigarette. They had all ended up sitting outside in the yard, where Lyralei had shown everyone how to make flower crowns from daisies and dandelions. Huskar apologized for a week straight afterwards, promising personally to Karroch that he wouldn’t smoke at parties anymore.

Not that he’s actually stuck to that promise, as evidenced by the distant, ‘ _J, baby, where’s my lighter?_ ’

Oh well.

Aiushtha vaults over the beer pong table, somehow not spilling any of the stereotypical red solo cups. She almost steps on Rizzrack, though, but he goes back to hanging out and laying under the table without fuss. For some reason, the exchange makes Davion start laughing so hard he chokes, and Yurnero also jumps over the table to pound on his back while Traxex starts laughing similarly.

Karroch watches Aiushtha check on a few of the younger tenants, insisting that they drink equal amounts of water to alcohol and make sure they don’t trip and hurt themselves. She narrowly dodges the football that comes flying back overhead, barely batting an eyelash about it as she chastises Magnia for somehow finding vodka.

To be completely honest, Karroch is nearly completely sure it’s his, but he’s not going to incriminate himself. Or admit that he’s adhering to Russian stereotypes of having stockpiled shitty vodka. Not after that time Abaddon had found a palette Smirnoff taking up half the last shelf of his fridge.

Karroch slings his arm around her shoulder as she comes near, and she reaches up to pat his hand that isn’t  occupied by a drink. It’s equal parts making sure she relaxes for at least a few minutes and using her as an armrest while he attempts to get his thoughts straight. Only a few beers and he’s already getting a bit fuzzy around the edges.

“Is the new tenant even here?” Karroch asks, subtly trying to add his half empty can to a growing stack against the wall.

“Nope.” Aiushtha pops the ‘p’ but doesn’t at all look upset by the fact that the guest of honor hasn’t showed. “He said we were free to have the party, but he probably wasn’t going to join. Moving in, and all that. Plus he has, like, seven dogs.”

“That’s a lot of dogs.” Not that he’s one to judge, considering his macaw is probably hanging on someone’s shoulder somewhere.

He manages to stack his can on top of the last one without an issue.

“Mhm. They were real cute though, so I don’t feel too bad about marking down he only had two.”

Karroch faked a gasp, which made her grin. “Aiushtha Warden, lying on an apartment lease? Well, I never.”

“Sue me,” she retorted, putting her hands on her hips and sticking her tongue out at him.

Karroch thinks that, realistically, he actually could, but it involves an excess of dogs so he’d let it slide. As long as they were being properly taken care of, and he could pet them one day.

The football comes flying back, and Brad fumbles the catch and watches helplessly as it goes ricocheting into someone’s open apartment. Jah’rakal, from the other side of the hallway, cackles with laughter. Someone from inside the suite lets out a surprised shriek and the ball gets thrown out the door and into another. He’s pretty sure whoever is in the other apartment gets hit with it bodily, because there’s a curse and everyone close to the door is suddenly laughing too hard to form words.

The music has changed to some upbeat electronica that’s a bit too loud, but no one really does anything to change it. Karroch figures one of the newer tenants has stolen the music dock, judging from the familiar songs he heard from the ceiling of the first floor when he’s trying to sleep. He can’t remember the guy’s name, but at least he doesn’t have to listen to intelligible Peruvian pop anymore.

Aiushtha, when he tunes back into the current happenings, has gone back to trying to convince Magnia to quit drinking his shitty vodka and switch to water. The guy has an impressive glare, Karroch’d give him that.

He takes his arm from around Aiushtha’s shoulders, letting her go with a smart comment about tending to her children. She also has an impressive glare, but not enough to get anything but a shit eating grin in return.

Without her support, Karroch gives in and leans against the wall. He’s a good distance away that anyone looking would assume he was just relaxing, not trying to stave off an early coming headache. He’d probably get called _old_ again by Lanaya or Huskar.

He’s only 35, for Christ’s sake.

“Sokoloff.”

“Solomon,” Karroch returns without missing a beat, nodding his head slightly.

Nortrom snorts from beside him, nudging shoulders before turning to watch the festivities as well. Karroch is, internally, glad for company on the quieter end of the spectrum. He likes everyone just fine, but at least Nortrom can rib him without shouting. Karroch turns his head to look at his friend, noting that his hair is getting a bit shaggy before being delighted to see what he’s wearing.

“Aww,” Karroch says, “You’re wearing the sweater I got you.”

The sweater in question is perfectly garish -- bright blue, with pink and yellow stars stitched into the sleeves and back. The menorah on the front is bedazzled with cheap white rhinestones, and the flames in orange. What really tied the monstrosity together was the white stitching of ‘ _Chai Maintenance_ ’ in Hebrew lettering across the chest, and Karroch remembers fondly when Nortrom had given him a link to the worst Hanukkah sweaters on the internet and firmly stated that he would never speak to Karroch again unless he got one as a present.

Nortrom snorts again, rubbing a hand over the rhinestones. It’s obviously been through the laundry a few times, evidenced by some of the runaway threads, but Karroch figures Nortrom secretly likes it more than just a gag gift.

“Yeah, but it’s also June and hot as hell out, so you better appreciate that I’m dying for the sake of fashion.” Nortrom folds the sleeves back a bit and tugs at the collar to try and allude to the fact it is, admittedly, a bit hot in the hallway, but Karroch just gives him an exaggerated pout. He gets ignored in favor of Nortrom waving to Magnia.

Karroch reaches up with one hand to ruffle the overgrown buzzcut his friend has, grinning as Nortrom huffs but lets him get away with it. He’s definitely due for another cut, judging by the way his hair is starting to curl around his ears. Karroch remembers that when he met Nortrom, his head thick with dark curls. Karroch also remembers overhearing the fit his mother threw when he’d sheared them all off.

“Gettin’ a bit scruffy, Solomon. Waiting for your boyfriend to offer to cut it again?”

That earns him a half-hearted scowl, along with getting his hand slapped away. Karroch just grins, crossing his arms and going back to leaning against the wall. Nortrom runs his fingers through his hair as well, tucking the longer strands behind his ears. With a quick glance, Karroch sees that the tips of his ears are pink.

“He’s not my boyfriend, _Sokoloff_. Isn’t it getting close to your nap time?”

Karroch clutched at his chest at the jab, giving an exaggerated gasp. He knew he wouldn’t escape being subject to at least _one_ old joke during the party, but being verbally murdered in the middle of the hallway by Nortrom was downright brutal.

“ _Ouch,_ man, maybe I do need a nap after that,” Karroch says, but Nortrom only laughs until he snorts and has to cover his mouth with his hand. Karroch rolls his eyes, shoves his friend away and makes a shooing motion with one hand. “Go, shmooz, be with the other children if I’m too old for you.”

Nortrom ends up shuffling toward Lanaya, somehow already with a drink in hand. She picks at one of the rhinestones on his sweater, and Karroch is pretty sure she just insulted it from the way Nortrom pouts.

The music changes again and Karroch silently thanks whoever’s taken the phone dock and turned it from that buzzing electronica. He figures he can get away later with blaming his budding headache on that, with the addition of maybe drinking a bit too fast. Karroch can make out something quiet coming from the speakers down the hall and smirks to himself when he recognizes Dave Matthews Band. Huskar must have gotten ahold of the music again, and he’s thankful for a moment that the guy has the weirdest music taste in the world.

Karroch lets himself zone out, staring at the wall opposite to him for no particular reason. The party seems to be winding down from the decrease in noise over the past few minutes, a few heavy scraping sounds telling him that couches are being pushed back into their homes and chairs are being stacked and collected to be shoved back into someone’s closet. Aiushtha wrangles a few of the younger tenants to start cleaning up cups and food.

There’s a nearby flap, and Karroch instinctively holds his hand out and cracks one eye open as his macaw lands on his forearm. She coos happily, side stepping until she’s found her usual perch on Karroch’s shoulder before starting to fuss with his hair. He probably needs to get back to his apartment soon and get her settled down, but his favorite song from Big Whiskey starts and Karroch figures he can stay long enough for it to finish.

He can hear Huskar start to sing loudly from down the hall, but it’s followed pretty quickly by a quieter, ‘ _Shit.'_ Karroch only just opens his eyes before a nearby smoke detector starts beeping furiously and Aiushtha calmly pulls the fire alarm. Dave Matthew’s croons about someone’s house burning down on a day like this and Karroch starts laughing so hard that his macaw squawks and his vision goes black around the edges.

Everyone in the hall shouts at Huskar in unison while the poor guy starts a tirade of apologies. Brad starts waving everyone towards the staircase, and Nortrom graciously collects a still-laughing Karroch and pushes him through the door. Karroch can hear barking from behind the new tenant’s door, and internally sends the guy a salute.

Funny, the way it is.  



	2. Bodyache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lookin’ at me like you want somethin’, flaco.” Huskar breaks the silence but when Jah’rakal looks, he’s still smiling. He releases a breath of smoke and holds his cigarette between two fingers while Jah’rakal stretches to reach the nearby ashtray and rest it on his stomach. Huskar flicks his ashes into the bowl and pauses before his next drag. “Ready for round two already?”
> 
> Jah’rakal reaches up and finds the scar on Huskar’s chest, traces the length of it before putting his hand on Huskar’s ribs. Huskar looks down, then up again while he blows smoke away from Jah’rakal’s face.
> 
> “Where’d you get this?” Jah’rakal asks, trails his fingers up again until they rest on Huskar’s collarbone. He finds a lock of hair to loop around his knuckles, playing with the strands absent mindedly.
> 
> Huskar ashes his cigarette again, then puts it to his lips and takes a deep inhale before replying, simply, “Died.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for implied sexual content, mentions of blood, and suicidal thoughts!

Jah’rakal has his fair share of scars.

It was practically impossible to avoid them when he was younger. He was a rowdy kid with a rowdier older sister and parents who only punished him more for scraped knees and elbows. Once, when he was twelve, he’d put his arm through a relative’s glass door and gotten sixteen stitches from wrist to elbow. He’d ended up pulling most of them before it healed completely, leaving some parts of the scar jagged and ugly looking. Jah’rakal, even at twenty three years old, still managed to collect more. Mostly from busted lips or getting angry enough to punch a nearby wall, but still scars nonetheless.

Nearly all of them were visible, though. His elbows and hands were pretty much one mass of scar tissue, and the old break in his nose was obvious once anyone saw the thin white line across the bridge. Hell, most people would know by some instinct he had a collection of them just from his personality, but that’s not really his point.

Jah’rakal’s point is that he’s just realizing now that this is the first time he’s seen a scar on Huskar.

Huskar’s just lit his post-sex cigarette, carefully holding it between his lips while he crosses his legs and leans back against the wall. His hair is still messy, barely kept in the ponytail he’d put up before they had started. Jah’rakal, secretly, always likes how Huskar looks after sex. Loose-limbed and content, with red marks already darkening against his throat, his eyes hooded and that little satisfied smile on his face.

Jah’rakal figures he has plenty of time to put that smile back on Huskar’s face later, because he’s busy staring at Huskar’s chest. Jah’rakal doesn’t exactly know how he’s missed it after months of dating and fucking, but there’s a long, neat scar between his pecs. Slightly off center, where Jah’rakal guesses angles and shadows could have hidden it easily. But it’s there, and he can’t take his eyes off of it.

“Lookin’ at me like you want somethin’, _flaco_.” Huskar breaks the silence but when Jah’rakal looks, he’s still smiling. He releases a breath of smoke and holds his cigarette between two fingers while Jah’rakal stretches to reach the nearby ashtray and rest it on his stomach. Huskar flicks his ashes into the bowl and pauses before his next drag. “Ready for round two already?”

Jah’rakal reaches up and finds the scar on Huskar’s chest, traces the length of it before putting his hand on Huskar’s ribs. Huskar looks down, then up again while he blows smoke away from Jah’rakal’s face.

“Where’d you get this?” Jah’rakal asks, trails his fingers up again until they rest on Huskar’s collarbone. He finds a lock of hair to loop around his knuckles, playing with the strands absent mindedly.

Huskar ashes his cigarette again, then puts it to his lips and takes a deep inhale before replying, simply, “Died.”

He laughs, a short little _ha-ha_ , at the look on Jah’rakal’s face. He waves a hand, rests it on his knee and pinches his cigarette between his knuckles while using his other hand to pull the elastic from his hair to let Jah’rakal play with it, even though his fingers have gone still.

Huskar leans over to grind out the light from his cigarette and put his hair tie on the nightstand, then his fingers trace down the scar. He tilts his head, mouth opening to, from what Jah’rakal knows about his boyfriend, tell some kind of joke when he sees the confusion still present. Huskar closes his eyes for a moment, and Jah’rakal lets the room go quiet while he watches his face carefully.

“I, uh. I got shot when I was younger. Sixteen. Or seventeen, around then. Back in Peru. It was an accident, you know, some kind of freak discharge or meant for someone else, I don’t really know. I didn’t really want to know after it happened.” Huskar opens his eyes again, though the smile from before is gone and replaced with something careful as he picks his words. “Guess I forgot to mention that on our first date, huh?”

Jah’rakal can’t find words at the moment, so he nods slowly. His eyes stay trained on Huskar, flicking between the growing frown on his face and the furrow in his eyebrows. He reaches up another inch to comb his fingers through the faded red dye of Huskar’s hair, making a low noise in his throat as a signal to continue.

“Um. So yeah, I was like, still alive but it got my lung or something,” and Huskar points to a thicker part of the scar, near the middle of the entire length, “So I was losing a lot of blood and kinda drowning, I think. I don’t really remember the ambulance ride or much after the initial shot cuz, you know, I was dying. But, uh, I remember being on one of those scary surgery tables.”

Jah’rakal feels sick, imagining Huskar lying on a cold metal table with his chest cut open. Younger, without the red in his hair, and his brown skin pale with blood loss. He wants to turn over and vomit just from the idea, but he stays fixed on Huskar and hopes the repetitive motion of playing with his hair is soothing.

Huskar clears his throat, reaches for his half-smoked cigarette, and Jah’rakal twists away to grab his lighter and hand it over. Huskar mumbles a _thank you_ and flicks the flame on, lets it dance for a moment before raising his thumb from the trigger without even lighting his cigarette. Jah’rakal’s stomach twists with some weird mix of worry and guilt, and he reaches up again to find a lock of hair to mess with.

“Baby-” he starts, but Huskar shakes his head quick and flashes a half-smile as best as he can.

“S’alright, sorry, uh. So. I’m passed out, obviously, and they’re cuttin’ me open to try and get this bullet out of my chest, and I guess after they get it out and start patching me up I start flat-lining or whatever cuz next thing that happens is, y’know. I died. One second I’m Huskar Quispe, bullet wound victim. The next?” He pauses, flicks the lighter back on and raises it to light his cigarette. Jah’rakal watches his chest expand while he inhales, and his throat twists when Huskar lets the flame go out. “Patient pronounced dead at 6:03pm.”

Huskar drops the lighter into the ashtray and takes a moment to breathe, letting smoke curl out of his mouth as he gathers his thoughts again. Jah’rakal lets his hand slide down to the scar again and rubs his thumb over it, wrapping the rest of his hand around Huskar’s ribs and hoping the warmth is grounding.

Huskar closes his eyes again and tilts his head back, and Jah’rakal wants to soothe away the tension in his face something fierce. But he stays quiet, waits for Huskar to speak again, watches the ash light up red with each inhale and the way he tilts his head to blow smoke away.

“So I guess the lead doctor didn’t want to give up or something, I dunno, after wasting the stitches to sew me back together, so he does the whole _clear_ thing. Doesn’t work. Does it again, doesn’t work. And his colleagues or whatever at this point are probably tellin’ him that it’s a lost cause, cuz I already ate shit and I’m halfway to the pearly gates or whatever, but he tries it one more time.”

He raises both his hands and wiggles his fingers in mock celebration, then reaches up and holds his cigarette out for Jah’rakal to ash while his eyes are closed. He does, then hands it back and Huskar murmurs a barely audible _thank you_ before clumsily finding Jah’rakal’s hand against his ribs and gently prying it off so they can lace fingers. Jah’rakal squeezes gently, and he can see Huskar’s mouth quirk into the tiniest smile.

“Ta-da, my heart starts beating again. So they get me stabilized and stuff, make sure I’m not gonna die again if they turn their back and that there’s nothing else floatin’ around in my chest. Uh. So they get me into intensive care and I was in a coma for a few days and all that. And eventually, duh, I wake up. And I’m real confused, cuz the last thing I actually remember is being flat out on the street with a bullet in my chest wondering what the hell just happened. But my mama is there and she starts crying as soon as I wake up, so I ask her what the hell just happened.

She gets real quiet for a minute and then she’s like, well, _hjio_ , you died. For seventeen seconds. And I’m still confused as hell cuz my mother just told me I died when I’m clearly alive and breathing, but she tells me everything and I see the clipboard with everything that happened, how I flat lined and they pronounced me dead and how the doctor brought me back, and I’m still confused, but my mama tells me to go back to sleep and she’s gonna talk to the doctors about going home and all that, so I do.”

Huskar’s cigarette has burned down to the filter now, and Jah’rakal reaches up to take it and stub it out, putting the ashtray back on the bedside table. Huskar scrubs at his face with his free hand, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his eyes before sighing and letting it drop to his lap. Jah’rakal tugs on their connected hands and Huskar unfolds his legs and turns to lay down next to him on the bed.

They’re both quiet for a moment, and Jah’rakal turns his head to look at Huskar only to find him looking back. Jah’rakal feels a little dizzy with all the new information and feelings, mainly still unable to get the image of Huskar, young and lanky and dying, out of his head. The idea that his boyfriend was only seconds from being gone forever before they ever had the chance to meet makes his heart hurt, and he leans his head forward to rest their foreheads together.

Huskar spends the next few minutes being quiet, and Jah’rakal briefly wonders if that’s all he wants to share, or if he’s too tired revisiting those memories to continue for now, but Huskar takes a deep breath and rolls onto his side so he can tuck his head against Jah’rakal’s shoulder.

“Um. So, I meet the doctor that revived me and for some reason I just get really pissed off, but I don’t really know why or how to express it so I just let my mama talk to him and sort out when I can go home and stuff. I had to stay in the hospital for a while just until they could make sure my lung was patched up and my stitches were good and all that. So I got home but I was just really _angry_ and, like, pissed off at everything and everyone and I kept snapping whenever my poor mama tried to give me my pain meds or listen to my breathing. And y’know I’m only, like, seventeen, so being angsty at the world or whatever isn’t totally unheard of but I started having a lot of… Bad thoughts, I guess.”

Jah’rakal manages to wiggle his arm under Huskar’s neck, both for support and so he can rub his hand down his boyfriend’s back. Huskar puts his free arm over Jah’rakal’s stomach, searching around until he laces their fingers back together and squeezes tight. Jah’rakal feels some weird seed of guilt in his chest, kicks himself internally for dredging up bad memories from his usually light and cheerful boyfriend. He should have kept his mouth shut about it, but he turns and presses a kiss to Huskar’s hair in hopes it’s comforting.

“Bad thoughts like, suicidal shit. Or something similar, I don’t know. I was just really confused by the whole concept of dying but not… Dying. That I got revived. Cuz I thought, y’know, if I died, I should have stayed dead. My own skin made me feel grossed out, and eating weirded me out, and I had a lot of scary-ass dreams about being some kind of fucked up zombie.”

Huskar manages a short little _ha-ha_ at that, but Jah’rakal feels even sicker at the image of Huskar feeling disgusted in his own skin. He squeezes Huskar’s hand again and tries tracing hearts against his back.

“Anyway it was, like, a month or so after the whole thing and I was kinda… Thinking about hurting myself. Cuz I really didn’t know what to do about all these feelings I had, and I couldn’t exactly go out and find some shrink who specializes in near-death experiences when I was seventeen years old. But I didn’t wanna put my parents through finding their son bleeding out or anything again, so I just started smoking.”

Jah’rakal knows Huskar’s smoking habits to the minute by now. One in the morning, usually while cooking breakfast or right after, and one either after sex or before going to sleep. It’s rare to see him smoke more than two cigarettes a day, excluding rare times when Huskar was stressed or at a party, smoking socially with anyone else who did. Huskar had told him once that he liked the repetition of it, and that he was just used to the taste by now.

Jah’rakal pictures young Huskar in Peru, leaning out the window of his bedroom and smoking to ease the feeling of his own skin.

“But eventually I just wanted to leave, cuz everything was really suffocating and I felt like I was gonna eat my own hands if I stayed in Peru for much longer. So I got my passport and stuff, and if my life didn’t already sound like a movie after that shit, I pretty much packed up and headed off to America.” Huskar exaggerates his accent while saying America and Jah’rakal can see him smile a little while doing so. It’s not forced or strained like earlier, so Jah’rakal figures that maybe he hasn’t completely upset him.

Jah’rakal fits his thumb against one of the dimples on Huskar’s lower back, and rubs circles into his hip. Huskar sighs, turning his head so he can rest his chin on Jah’rakal’s chest. The shitty lamp he’s had for years is the only thing giving light in the room, but it makes Huskar’s eyes look a pretty red-brown and highlight the faint freckles across his cheeks. He shuts his eyes after a minute, making a soft hum.

“Where was I?”

“Going to America.” Jah’rakal’s mouth feels dry, so he licks his lips and snorts quietly when he sees Huskar do the same before speaking.

“Right. I didn’t have anywhere specific in mind but I was eighteen and depressed so I figured I’d either die in a ditch or end up on Ellen, which both sounded fine back then. I hung around in New Mexico for a while, mostly just dicking around and hiking a lot. My mama said I should try being nature-y, see if it helped to be out of cities and stuff. I mostly just got pissed off at burrs and poison ivy. Uh, eventually I got over to some family in San Jose, so I stayed with them for a bit so I’d actually have a house and stuff. My uncle got real pissy with my shit real fast though, so he told me to at least check the _web_ for trauma groups or something.

“I got real pissy back at him, though, cuz I didn’t really wanna spill my guts to some stranger about how I was dead for seventeen seconds and be a bitch about it. But I wanted a roof over my head, so I did search around and there were a few, like, old forums and shit about near-death experiences but a lot of ‘em for for religious people. Some of it was helpful, but most of it was talking about God’s _plan_ and all that, which all felt a little like bullshit.”

Jah’rakal feels like he should be saying something, replying to Huskar or asking questions, but Huskar seems fine with his constant stream of talking. Jah’rakal has always found Huskar’s voice soothing, unable to count the times he’s fallen asleep to his boyfriend’s quiet murmuring about any topic that found it’s way into his head. He can feel that it’s getting late, and any other night the hum of Huskar’s voice would have already lulled him to sleep, but Jah’rakal wants to stay up and listen to Huskar for as long as possible.

“Hmm… I guess it was like, a year or something later when I just realized I was tired. Being angry for so long takes a lot out of you,” and Huskar cracks one eye open to look at Jah’rakal, giving him just the hint of a smirk. “And I had spent some time finding actual trauma support, so it was nice at least knowing I wasn’t alone in how I felt. Which was validating as hell, cuz a lot of them dealt with anger issues and suicidal thoughts too.”

Huskar pulls their laced fingers up, resting his palm flat underneath Jah’rakal’s before pressing his cheek to the back of his hand. Jah’rakal manages to move his thumb enough to rub over Huskar’s cheekbone, and Huskar tilts his head just enough to kiss the pad of his thumb.

“I guess eventually the stuff that helped the most was just knowing I could go on to do whatever I wanted. It still gets me sometimes, knowing that for seventeen seconds my heart wasn’t beating, but whenever I do I just think about what I can do with my life since I’m not six feet under. Getting to talk to my mom, or staying up til 2am at parties, seeing the sunrise. That kind of stuff.” Huskar stops speaking, lets his voice fade out and takes a few even breaths. Jah’rakal wonders for a second if he’s fallen asleep, but he makes a quiet hum and moves his leg to tangle with Jah’rakal’s.

“I probably should have brought this up when I started hitting on you,” Huskar says after a few beats of silence, and laughs at his own joke. “Can you imagine if I opened with that? Hi, I’m Huskar, I think you’re really cute, do you wanna hear about how I died?” Jah’rakal snorts, pushes on Huskar’s shoulder until they both roll onto their sides, face to face. Huskar’s grinning, though it softens and he leans forward to press their foreheads together.

“Are you okay?” Jah’rakal asks, though he feels like putting his foot in his mouth after speaking. His stupid mouth doesn’t know how to put it into words right, but he means more than that. He wants to know if Huskar’s lung still hurts, or if this is hard to talk about, or if he still thinks about dying. He wants to know if Huskar is okay in every sense, with his life and where he’s at. A little part of him wants to know if Huskar is okay with Jah’rakal.

Huskar reaches up to run his fingers through Jah’rakal’s hair, bumps their noses together, hooks his foot around Jah’rakal’s ankle. “Yeah, _flaco_. I’m okay.”

Jah’rakal kisses him, soft and slow, fits his hand over Huskar’s waist and rubs his thumb in a circle against his ribs. Huskar hums, rests his fingers on Jah’rakal’s jaw and smiles against his lips. He still tastes like smoke from earlier, but Jah’rakal’s gotten used to it by this point. Huskar rubs their noses together after they break apart, presses a kiss to a tiny scar on Jah’rakal’s chin, then moves to tuck his head against his neck.

“Besides,” Huskar says, kicking his feet to get to ahold of the blanket that was previously pushed to the edge of the bed, “I started dating this really cute guy a few months ago, and he definitely makes me happy to be alive.”

Huskar pulls the comforter up around their shoulders, and Jah’rakal’s whole body aches with affection as he presses a final kiss to Huskar’s forehead and closes his eyes to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please listen to bodyache by purity ring while reading this chapter bc it fucked me up guys


	3. Tender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clydesdale stomps again, doing a piaffe while trying to hide his reigns and back away from the voice trying to coax him into his pen. He gets a little too close for Tzipporah’s comfort, and she huffs loudly and stamps her own much smaller hoof in protest. It's almost a little amusing to see the much bigger horse startle away, forgetting momentarily about playing keep away with his owner. The still obscured voice makes a triumphant noise, and the clydesdale snorts.
> 
> “Uh,” Abaddon says smartly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lamma = hebrew for "why/for what purpose"  
> говно = russian for "shit"

Abaddon loves his parents.

They can just be a bit much, sometimes. He wakes up to three text messages from his mother telling him they’d be out of Seattle for a week, that he should put his homework down and relax, and then finally a wine glass emoji. He sends back a simple ‘ _Ok_ ’ and prepares himself to roll back over and get a bit more sleep, but his phone starts ringing and Abaddon seriously considers shoving his head under the pillows and ignoring it until his entire brain is actually working. Abaddon knows his mother will keep calling until he picks up, though, so he heaves himself upright and swipes his phone to answer.

“ _Lamma_?” Abaddon mumbles, rubbing grit out of his eye. He can hear radio music in the background, so he guesses his parents are still driving to wherever the boat is departing from. His mother clicks her tongue from her end of the line, and Abaddon braces himself already.

“Abby! Your father and I were beginning to worry you’d never wake up and see those messages. Do you have any idea what time it is?” Abaddon resists the urge to say something sharp, and pulls his phone away to squint at the screen. 9:43am. He puts his phone back to his ear, unsurprised that his mother is still talking. “-be in Victoria for most of the time, but I think we’re planning to go up to Vancouver if we can. Right, dear? Anyway-”

“ _Lamma?_ ” Abaddon repeats. Probably a little too forcefully, but considering he’s only just got up he doesn’t feel too bad about it. He focuses on the creases his bed sheets left in his arm to wake himself up.

“English, sweetie! There’s a new vineyard that a friend’s friend owns in Victoria, so they invited us to come up and see it. We would have brought you along but you know you’d just bring your homework along, hah!” His mother’s voice gets distant at the end, and Abaddon can hear her start to give directions to his father. Abaddon smooths out a wrinkle in his pillowcase and seriously considers hanging up.

He’s about to say goodbye when his mother comes back to the speaker, throwing out a quick jumble of ‘ _loveyouabbyrelaxabit_ ’ before the line goes dead. He puts his phone down before it can make that harsh beep, and stares at his floor for a moment. He probably can’t fall back asleep at this point, and it’s a reasonable enough time that he should probably be up anyway. He thinks about going to Nortrom and complaining about his parents, but Nortrom has been spending most of his time complaining to Karroch, and Abaddon doesn’t want to deal with cat hair ever again in his life.

Eventually Abaddon drags himself to his feet and leaves his room, taking a minute to straighten a picture frame on his shelf before shuffling to the kitchen. Being in one of the smaller apartment suites means there isn’t really a lot more than a fridge, a dishwasher, and a sink, but Abaddon somehow spends most of his meals standing in front of the stove anyway. He grabs a few yogurt cups from the fridge, taking a moment to enjoy the snapping sound when he separates them out before getting a spoon as well.

Abaddon lets himself zone out while eating, contemplating what he’s going to do for the day. His first thought is studying, or at least reading, but he’s either ahead on all his work or finished before the deadlines, so there isn’t much for him to do there. He could ask if anyone has plans for the day, but he left his phone in his room, and doesn’t quite feel like moving yet to check. His on-campus friends might have plans as well, but Abaddon figures they probably would have already invited him if they did. He eats the last scoop of yogurt from the second cup and tosses it into the trash bin, peeling back the lid of the third and staring at the nutritional trivia printed on the foil. He doesn’t really want to spend the day lying on the floor, so he spoons the last of his yogurt into his mouth and trudges back to his room.

He gets back into bed, swiping his phone from the bedside table and unlocking it. The wine emoji from his mother mocks him for a moment before he navigates into the group chat consisting of the Jewish apartment owners in both Dire and Radiant. There’s a small backlog, mainly of Ostarion asking if anyone knew how to fix his router and Nortrom trying to walk him through it over text. Lyralei had popped in once to type ‘ _lmao_ ’.

 
    
    
     **Abaddon**   _10:03am  
    _ is anyone doing anything today

 
    
    
     **Lyralei**   _10:03am  
    _ date w trax!!

 
    
    
     **Lyralei** _10:04am_  
     why whats up??

 
    
    
     **Abaddon**   _10:04am_  
     parents went on a trip without me and i 
    
    
    don’t have anything to do

 
    
    
     **Lyralei**   _10:04am_  
     bummer!! no studying to do or anything?

 
    
    
     **Abaddon**   _10:04am_  
     unfortunately no

 
    
    
     **Nortrom**   _10:04am_  
     Isn’t there a country or yacht club you 
    
    
    can go to?

 
    
    
     **Abaddon**   _10:04am_  
     isn’t there a middle aged women’s book 
    
    
    club you can go to

 
    
    
     **Lyralei**   _10:04am  
    _ LMAO

 
    
    
     **Nortrom**   _10:05am_  
     Guess I’ll go fuck myself then.

 

Abaddon makes himself sit up before he dozes off, locking his phone so he can rub the screen onto his sheets to clear the finger prints. He could probably do with food shopping soon, but grocery stores are always more entertaining at late hours, so he files that one away for when it gets dark out. His phone beeps again, but he gives himself a minute of smoothing out wrinkles in his bed sheets and enjoying the thread count before turning his phone over and unlocking it.

 
    
    
     **Karroch**   _10:07am  
    _ Hey abby i got called to the stable where 
    
    
    your horse is, do you want a ride?

 
    
    
     **Nortrom**   _10:07am_  
     Was that a pun.

 
    
    
     **Karroch**   _10:07am_  
     Literally when will you die

 

Unintentional pun aside, going to the stable wasn’t a bad idea. It had been a few days since Abaddon had gone to see his horse, Tzipporah, who his parents had gifted to him as a _‘sorry for uprooting your entire life’_ present a few years ago. Annoyingly enough, at the time, learning how to take care of her and making sure to visit her every other day was a good distraction from moving. There was also something incredibly satisfying about his mother’s irritation towards Abaddon using Tzipporah’s grooming to stim. Going to the stable would probably count as ‘relaxing’, and it was about time he needed to go see her anyway.

Abaddon navigates away from the group chat and into his text messages with Karroch. They didn’t talk often, and most of their previous messages were talking about animals or embarrassing pictures of Nortrom. The last one sent by Karroch was of Nortrom sitting on his kitchen floor and clutching a box of matzah in one hand and his dog in the other, mid-sentence and presumably about to tell Karroch to put the camera down. Abaddon had only replied with the dancer emoji.

Abaddon gives himself exactly two minutes to weigh the pros and cons of actually going outside today. Seeing his horse and friendly interaction are good pluses, but he isn’t quite sure if he is up for strangers today. Talking to his mother usually bent at least two spoons into disuse, but he has gotten pretty good at dodging anyone else at the stable over the years, and a good few hours with Tzipporah would be a nice recharge. Karroch was pretty unstressful as friends came, quiet animal lover with occasional snark , so it isn’t like Abaddon would have to deal with a drive full of picking at his life or choices. Abaddon gave his last twenty-three seconds to pulling the fitted sheet edge into place.

 
    
    
     **Abaddon**   _10:09am_ _  
    _when are you leaving for the stable

 
    
    
     **Karroch**   _10:09am  
    _ 15 mins or so i gotta get my gear together 
    
    
    and all

 
    
    
     **Abaddon**   _10:10am  
    _ i’ll come over then

 

Throwing on clothes only takes a couple of minutes, and Abaddon spends another few washing his face and making sure his hair doesn’t look like too much of a mess, although he gives up pretty early considering he learned very young that curls just don’t obey any kind of command. He pulls on his socks and slides to his living room, gathering his wallet, keys, and phone, along with the rest of his yogurt cups and tossing them all into his backpack. The clock on his microwave says it’s 10:19 now, so Abaddon figures it’s probably an alright time to head over to Karroch’s apartment. He locks his suite door on the way out and takes the stairs two at a time.

No one is outside on the Dire apartment lawn, but it’s still vaguely early and a weekend. Abaddon would guess half the apartment is still asleep, or at least bumming around doing typical early weekend morning things.

He crosses the parking lot towards the Radiant building, digging around for his keys on the way up the little stairs for the front door key T.B had given him a few months ago. Abaddon didn’t ask or really want to know why T.B had a key to the Radiant apartment, but he’d guess it was either from Aiushtha or Dragonus, or he had stolen it by accident and shoved it off to the first person he thought of. Either way, Abaddon unlocks the front door and walks down the hall to Karroch’s apartment.

The Radiant apartment, in mostly literal terms, was much more open than the Dire. Most of the doors on the first floor are propped open, either by books, chairs, or people, and Abaddon can see people grouping up in each other’s suites to do social things. He doesn’t really care to put names to faces or figure out what exactly people are doing together, but he can hear telltale signs of certain Radiant apartment owners. Namely Yurnero’s loud video games, Huskar’s Spanish pop, and of course, the distant screaming of Tango, Karroch’s macaw.

Abaddon lets himself into the partially ajar door to Karroch’s, sticking his foot out by instinct to stop the terrier, Artour, from either escaping or jumping up against his legs. The dog apparently gets the idea to simply _not_ , and scampers away back into the apartment. Karroch isn’t in the living room, but there is a red duffel and familiar work boots next to the couch, so Abaddon wanders over to the turtle tank and watches Kristov munch sleepily on some lettuce.

It’s only a few moments before he hears Karroch thumping up the stairs, so Abaddon turns to greet him and ends up spooking him so badly he nearly falls back down the steps. “ _Говно!_ ” Karroch curses, grabbing the railing for support, “Jesus, Abby, you scared the shit out of me.” He doesn’t look particularly upset about it though, and slides across the wooden floor to pack something like a small toolbox into his duffel. Karroch sits, starting to untie the knots in his laces and pulling on his boots.

“Do you think in Russian?” Abaddon asks. Karroch pauses in the middle of loosening his laces, considering the question for a moment. He’s one of the few who puts serious thought into Abaddon’s random inquiries, although Abaddon would bet it was half Karroch’s way of getting him to shut up and half an excuse to go on a tangent about Russia or animals or how he was a perfectly average height.

“It depends, I guess,” Karroch says as he pulls his laces taut and double knots them. “If I’m by myself or talking to someone else in Russian, then yeah. If I’m talking to someone in English or reading English then I’ll think in it.” He pulls on his other boot, tugging up his sock and going about tightening his laces, “I’m speaking English ninety-eight percent of the time anyway, so I don’t really have a reason to be thinking or speaking in Russian.”

Abaddon hums, waits a beat, then tries to keep a smirk off his face. “It must be easier to not have to think so fast, then.”

Karroch looks up after finishing his double knot, raising an eyebrow before it sinks in. His face twists into a grimace like he's just been kicked, and he takes a moment to wince off the pun before standing up and slinging his duffel over his shoulder. Abaddon could see the emblem of the animal hospital Karroch worked at stitched into the side of it.

“Get to the car before I change my mind about giving you a drive,” Karroch says, making a shooing motion at Abaddon. He feels smug enough about his successful pun and doesn’t argue, slipping out the door before he gets caught up in Karroch kissing his pets goodbye for ten minutes straight. Abaddon spends the walk from Karroch’s apartment to his car making a script for himself for when they arrive at the stable. He finishes the first draft by the time Karroch exits the building door, and they get into the car and on the road with no issues. About 10 minutes into the drive, Karroch nearly swerves them off the road with the realization that Abaddon himself is multilingual, and he laughs for nearly two minutes straight.

The rest of the trip is uneventful, besides the occasional cooing as they drive past a dog on the sidewalk. It’s warm enough out that Abaddon gets away with rolling his window down fully, sticking his hand out and curling it in the air flow while Karroch pays attention to the road. The express lane is a godsend, and they zoom across the interstate quickly.

Abaddon doesn’t pay much attention to the surroundings the entire trip, entertaining himself occasionally by making words out of license plates and noting where unique ones come from. A black square car with a blue Nova Scotia plate catches his eye most of the drive, and it’s only when Karroch splits off into the wind towards the stable that he loses site of the Canadian car. He sends it a silent salute and refocuses on the road ahead.

The woods get a little denser, and the small town nearby comes into view. Abaddon himself has never spent much time in it besides fueling his car or grabbing a snack at the gas station, opting to go straight to his horse and not talk to too many weird locals. He sticks his head out the window as soon as they turn down the dirt road promising horses, and nearly whacks his own head off with a low hanging branch.

“Every time,” Karroch sighs.

There are people waiting when Karroch pulls up, and he barely turns the car off and throws Abaddon a _‘stay safe’_ before he is whisked away towards a barn with duffel in tow. Abaddon sneaks himself out of the car and slings his backpack across his shoulders easily, putting on his best _‘i belong here’_ face as he walks towards the stables that house Tzipporah. He knows the layout of the place as well as his own apartment right now, and the most acknowledgement he gets now is a nod from one of the stable hands before ducking into the right cover.

Tzipporah is beautiful, in Abaddon’s objectively correct opinion. Pure black Friesian, tall and sleek, her mane still braided from the last time he was here and fussed over it. She’s munching quietly on hay, but perks up the second he peeks over the divider and sticks her head into his waiting hands. He rubs her snout eagerly, cooing the whole time and giving a cursory glance that she looked happy. Overjoyed at the moment, of course, but she looked perfectly taken care of. He gives her snout another scratch quickly before leaving to drag out her equipment. An equally stylish saddle and reins, which he carries with minimal effort into her pen to get her ready. She shakes herself, excited, but obediently stands still as he straps on the saddle. Normally he would give her a brush first, but general social anxiety had kept him from venturing out all this way to see her.

Abaddon leads her out of the shelter, sympathetic to the other cooped up horses and giving them a wave before he mounts up. Tzipporah shakes her head, patiently waiting for him to take the reins but taking off in a steady walk the second he nudges her sides. His hand braces against the side of her neck, soothed by the dense fur.

The boarding stable had a huge outdoor area, with tons of winding trails through the pine woods bordering the fenced in sections. There was plenty of space for the few others who were here training with their own horses, and he watches some of them race around pylons and practice bowing playfully. A gigantic inky clydesdale prances like it were a foal. He and Tzipporah kept trotting along, passing a pen full of horses being groomed while they chew hay and shake off dust. Nudging his heels towards one of their prefered paths, the two of them disappear behind the tree line.

It’s a little foggy, and still cold for nearing noon. Abaddon wraps the reins around the saddle horn and leans back, hands against his thighs as they trot quietly along. It’s nice to be alone yet outside, not stuck up in his apartment and rewriting school papers out of boredom, or ignoring his phone in favor or rewatching his favorite tv shows. His netflix subscription was his real best friend at this point, sadly enough. Medusa invites him out occasionally, offering to get him dinner, or even to go to the bookstore together.

He appreciates it, of course. It’s more than his actual mother does, sending the occasional picture or asking if he needs money before chastising him when it’s for anything but schoolwork. It’s a difficult way to exist with his parents, being at arm's length but still the sum of their hard work. Abaddon scrubs a hand over his face, pushing aside the familiar hollow tightness in his chest. In the middle of the woods on a horse is no time for disassociating, especially on a topic that’s been done to death.

Instead he talks to Tzipporah. Nothing in particular, as they walk along the winding path, chattering about his latest projects or tv series he’s heard good things about. He fiddles with his ring while speaking, explaining he’s been thinking about adopting a therapy animal to bring to campus but all they allow is dogs. There was nothing _wrong_ with dogs, but the regal sphynx he’d been eyeing just won’t do it at his college.

“If only I could bring you,” he sighs, patting Tzipporah’s neck.

Technically he’s not suppose to be back here for more than thirty minutes, especially without supervision, but he walks the trail twice. He nudges Tzipporah into a run for half the track, giving her a chance to stretch and breathe after being left alone for so long. The wind against his face is more than refreshing, and he gives her a good scratch through the messy braids before turning back towards the stable. She deserves a thorough brush after his anxiety-induced neglect.

Abaddon slides off her back as they break the tree line, holding her reins the rest of the way towards the shelter. It has gotten a little warmer out, and most of the people who were outside training are now nowhere to be seen or resting off to the side. He is on his own until Karroch finishes whatever he was called out here to do, so it seems like Abaddon has all the time in the world to spend with Tzipporah for now.

However the moment Abaddon turns into the shelter, he’s confronted with the gigantic clydesdale from earlier.

It’s blocking Tzipporah’s pen, stomping its hooves like a petulant child while dodging what Abaddon assume is its owner. Abaddon had to admit, it- _he-_ is a handsome horse. Well groomed and fed, stumpy tail in a complex braid that put Tzipporah’s mane to shame. He looks powerful and smart, but as the sudden voice in front of him says-

“You are being _such_ a brat right now.”

The clydesdale stomps again, doing a piaffe while trying to hide his reigns and back away from the voice trying to coax him into his pen. He gets a little too close for Tzipporah’s comfort, and she huffs loudly and stamps her own much smaller hoof in protest. It's almost a little amusing to see the much bigger horse startle away, forgetting momentarily about playing keep away with his owner. The still obscured voice makes a triumphant noise, and the clydesdale snorts.

“Uh,” Abaddon says smartly.

The voice curses, and the clydesdale sulks forward enough that Abaddon can open Tzipporah’s pen, and she squeezes in quickly. Safely away from the bratty horse, she sticks her head back over the door and into Abaddon’s hands. He pets her idly while watching the still hidden voice coax the clydesdale into his own enclosure.

“Sorry,” the voice says again once the clydesdale is successfully penned in and mopily being ungeared. Abaddon stays quiet, petting Tzipporah’s snout over the muffled half-curses and affronted snorting. He’s seen his fair share of bratty animals and frustrated owners, but this sounded much different. Weirdly familiar, or teasing. But affectionate. Like scolding a younger sibling before sharing treats. Tender.

Abaddon’s brought from his thoughts when finally the mysterious owner backs out of the pen. Wiping dust from his shirt, slightly frazzled but smiling genuinely enough Abaddon’s startled for a moment. He’s _handsome_ \- stupidly so, even when covered with sand from riding and after being accosted by a lively full grown clydesdale. He brushes himself off again, though it does nothing. “Armageddon turns into the _biggest_ baby whenever I have to leave.”

“It’s okay,” Abaddon answers entirely on autopilot. Armageddon was certainly a fitting name for the gigantic horse trying sulkily to nip at his owner. He tilts his head after a moment, looking at Abaddon a little closer and making him avert his eyes back to Tzipporah out of habit. Scrutiny from someone this attractive without social support of a friend was too sudden, tying his tongue in knots and making his fingers catch in Tzipporah’s fur.

The outrageously hot stranger picks up his backpack from the ground, slinging it over his shoulders easily and giving Armageddon a goodbye kiss on the snout. He gives a deep bow towards Abaddon suddenly, smiling again as he walks backwards out of the shelter. “Catch you around?”

Abaddon only nods in mild surprise, blinking at the stranger’s far too attractive back until he’s left alone with the horses again.

Tzipporah nudges his still hands, and Abaddon is quick to snap himself out of hot boy induced staring. He promised her a grooming and re-braiding earlier, and he’d be damned if he doesn’t deliver. Stepping inside the pen with her, he roots around for the special combs and brushes perfect for her fur and collects them into his arms. She stands still easily, and he imagines she misses the feel of his hands combing through her hair just as much as he does.

Starting from her flanks, Abaddon spends the next however long meticulously brushing her. Combing out any snags and braiding her tail, rubbing sand away from her legs, making her hide shine like onyx. Her mane gets the most attention, leaning against her as he carefully unties the braids and brushes them out. It’s been so long her mane curls nearly as much as his own hair. Twisting locks together like rope, he gets to the base of her neck in a pleasing mindless repetition stupor without much issue. The larger braids would be easier to untangle next time, and hopefully pull less on her fur. He spends the next few minutes after idly petting her shoulder and taking pictures to send to his mom later until a familiar whistle startles both of them.

Sticking his head around the corner, Karroch appears for the first time since they arrived earlier. His duffel is still over his shoulder, though he looks a little more flapped and his hair is up in a messy bun. “Ready to fly, Abby?”

Karroch gets going after Abaddon nods, letting him collect his things and give Tzipporah a hug as best he can. He spends an extra few moments with their foreheads together, trying not to tear up like a baby like every other time he’s had to leave her. She gets an extra kiss on her nose before Abaddon regretfully leaves her pen, forcing himself to look away from her sad eyes and stand beside Karroch at the entrance of the shelter.

“You good?” Karroch asks, the sympathy of an over-attached pet owner evident in his voice. Abaddon nods sternly, and they walk across the farm back towards his car.

Armageddon’s owner comes back to mind, and Abaddon throws a side glance towards Karroch before picking his words carefully. “The gigantic dressage horse in there… do you know his owner?”

Karroch pops open his trunk and throws his duffel in, rummaging around until he finds a pair of shitty sunglasses to block the glare on the ride home. He sits them on his face, then scratches his beard for a moment. “You mean Mr. Tall Dark and Clydesdale? Yeah, he’s around pretty often. The only one doing dressage with a draft horse here.” Abaddon doesn’t reply for a minute, but he can feel Karroch squint at him from behind the glasses.

“He talked to you, didn’t he?”

Abaddon nods.

“He’s hot, isn’t he?”

Abaddon nods again, looking pathetically at Karroch while he sighs and pats his shoulder comfortingly. He presses the button to unlock the car, and Abaddon climbs in and sadly shoves his backpack down by his feet while Karroch re-ties his hair and flips down the sun visor in preparation for the drive.

“Let’s get you some froyo, then.”

Half an hour later with froyo in hand is when Karroch turns to Abaddon with another sympathetic look and says, “You know he’s a Dire apartment tenant, right?”

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... hey there. been awhile, huh?
> 
> warcraft snatched me up right after ti6 and took over my life from there, and it was only til ti7 a little while ago that my love for dota came back really strong. this was sitting in my google docs for months half finished before my dear friends kurr and shelzie cheered me on to finish it. i don't know if i'll get back into regular updates again but chapter 4 has also been in the works for a while so we'll see! there are still 19 chapters planned so i certainly have things to choose from
> 
> i listened to tender by blur over 100 times while writing this and it's a very sweet song, give it a listen!
> 
> catch my brand new apartment au/dota twitter @aprtmntdefender!
> 
> and very big thank you to shelz @sheliloquy for editing this!


	4. In the name of love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was a 90s kid, I’m allowed to give into my denim impulses,” T.B replies, one hand briefly leaving Phoenix to cover his heart as if hurt. The chicken seizes this chance to hop out of his lap and eagerly make a break for the door. Damn. He pouts at Dragonus, who only laughs at him and finally stops fussing over his clothing. 
> 
> “There,” he says, tossing his messy braid over his shoulder and holding a hand out to T.B. “Let’s go have fun.”
> 
> T.B only hopes his hands aren’t sweaty as their fingers lace together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vague tw for alcohol consumption! and some heavy emotions, though hopefully not triggering.

T.B is pretty sure he’s screwed.

He has also had a lot of time to come to terms with the fact he is utterly and properly fucked. Months of mental anguish and tormenting himself by talking to his mirror about his issues has gotten him to a point where he’s so stressed about it that he’s somehow completely zen. Talking to Aiushtha about it so much has helped him master maintaining blank faces and even speaking like a normal person, when faced with the reality that he is deeply, disgustingly, and overwhelmingly in love with his best friend.

“Would you fuck me?”

Well, maybe he slips up a little sometimes. T.B manages to keep his facial twitch mostly hidden while Dragonus is fussing over his clothes in the mirror, alternating between tugging his shirt up and pulling it down over the waistband of his jeans. T.B has been sitting around long enough that Dragonus has gone through at least three outfit changes, and twice almost called off their night. Phoenix, Dragonus’s pet chicken, has nearly gotten stepped on a handful of times already, so T.B is holding her securely in his lap while her owner flaps around. If he’s being honest, T.B has spent most of his waiting either sneaking glances at Dragonus’ legs or watching cooking videos on his phone while muted.

“I dunno.” T.B tries to keep his voice as even as possible. “I think it’s more important if  _ you _ would fuck you. I liked the red jeans, though.”

Dragonus spares a look at said jeans, then eyes T.B in the reflection. “Your fashion opinions were revoked  _ long _ ago, T. You’re wearing double denim.”  

T.B only frowns down at himself after that, having barely remembered what he threw on before Dragonus came over. He is indeed wearing dark jeans and his typical beaten up jean jacket. Most of the patches are so old or covered by newer ones he can’t read them, but a few of them still stick out. His ‘ _ DEMON VVITCH _ ’ patch lovingly resides on his left bicep, and he’s pretty sure the ‘ _ see all you fucks in hell _ ’ Baphomet is still on his back, gifted to him by Clinkz a few years ago. At this point he’s fairly sure the jacket is held together by a few strategic patches, but until that day T.B would keep wearing it.

“I was a 90s kid, I’m allowed to give into my denim impulses,” T.B replies, one hand briefly leaving Phoenix to cover his heart as if hurt. The chicken seizes this chance to hop out of his lap and eagerly make a break for the door. Damn. He pouts at Dragonus, who only laughs at him and finally stops fussing over his clothing. 

“There,” he says, tossing his messy braid over his shoulder and holding a hand out to T.B. “Let’s go have fun.”

T.B only hopes his hands aren’t sweaty as their fingers lace together.

Dragonus deems the Rosh Pit too local to really have fun in, so T.B ends up driving an extra 15 minutes to some club with a neon sign out front that he can’t even read, and a line longer than he really cares to actually count. The brick of the building has been painted over with graffiti art, smaller pieces overlapping at eye-level but huge murals left untouched the closer to the roof. A stylized painting of a bird’s nest sits behind the sign, technicolor branches woven together and depicting angel-like people flying to and fro. T.B thinks it’s a little tacky, but Dragonus takes him by the hand and pulls him towards the door, so he keeps his mouth shut.

The bouncer jerks his chin at Dragonus, and he takes over easily. T.B feels a little stupid, standing silent and awkward while a conversation is happening right in front of him, but he stays quiet and tries to appear as non-threatening as his 6’5” body can be. He recognizes ‘ _ el meu amic’  _ easily enough from Dragonus, and a few moments after that the bouncer stands aside to let both of them in. T.B murmurs a quiet thank you after Dragonus, and they slip inside.

T.B is entirely too friendly with clubs. They were his default backdrop by 16, the bass boosted speakers and thrum of bodies only white noise as he filled his head with whatever back-alley sketchy nonsense he was doing back then. He tosses the thought aside though, focusing on Dragonus’ back as he pulls them both deeper into the neon lights. A few girls, with glow sticks bent into the shape of cartoony angel wings, wave at them, and Dragonus waves back politely. T.B was fairly certainly nothing besides overpriced oregano was being dealt here.

It is a prep college club, anyway.

Dragonus wiggles himself into the bar, leaving T.B to stand somewhat awkwardly behind him as he orders. T.B had offered on the way over to stay sober, which he usually did anyway. His style would remain day drinking in his own bed listening to metal on the lowest sound setting, but no one had to know about that. It was healthy for a man to have his secrets, right?

Besides, Dragonus ordering sangria at a club was wild enough for the both of them.

There isn’t really space for them to sit or lean comfortably against the bar, but they shuffle around a few crowds until spotting a decent strip of wall. Dragonus can rest his back against it easily, quietly sipping already while T.B has to lean sideways beside him, shoulders touching and stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. Dragonus likes to finish his drink first, people watching with T.B and pointing out people he knew, or people he thought look interesting. T.B spends it mostly watching Dragonus and thinking the neon lights highlighting his profile made him look like an angel.

“What’s the plan for tonight?” T.B asks, head bending down to nearly rest his chin on Dragonus’ shoulder. It was entirely possible it was just a ‘ _ get a little tipsy and dance _ ’ night, where he’d walk home with Dragonus latched onto his arm and they’d get about 15 minutes into a movie before passing out on the couch, but T.B’s gut told him something else.

“To have fun,” Dragonus replies, smiling at T.B over the rim of his drink. It doesn’t reach his eyes though, and he’s had years to become fluent in Stressed Out Dragonus. This was a ‘ _ get drunk and hope someone takes me home _ ’ night. T.B ignores the stupid twist of  _ guiltshamegreed _ and simply nods.

It takes a few more songs for Dragonus to finish his drink, taking a healthy couple of minutes just to chew on the lip of his plastic cup and watch the crowd. He points out the group of girls from earlier, dancing together and flinging their hair every which way before handing T.B his empty cup. “I’ll be at the-” and T.B flips his hand towards the bar, trying to remain nonchalant. Dragonus flashes a smile and leans up to kiss his cheek before sliding into the dance floor.

T.B stays against the wall for a few beats, trying to push back every dumb ass urge to ask Dragonus to stay and just go home with  _ him _ before dragging himself away. Someone vacates their seat at the bar as soon as he turns, so T.B plants himself readily at the edge of the bar and tries to be as stoic as possible while ordering just a coke. 

It’s not hard to find Dragonus from this vantage point, given that even while sitting on a bar stool T.B’s about half a head taller than the majority of the crowd. He’s gotten himself a pair of glow stick wings from the girls and blends in seamlessly, messy braid coming half undone as they dance. T.B must look like bloody murder from the outside, eyes pinned to Dragonus and watching like a hawk, glass bottle of coke resting in one big hand, stretching out to take up more space than reasonably possible. 

At least only T.B knows how pathetic he really is inside.

Anyone else, and he wouldn’t be having this problem. T.B is confident in every other regard, cool and stoic to those on the outside and generally unflappable. Asking someone out, or at the very least propositioning someone for a good time, has never been an issue for him in the past. If he wanted something, there was little reason to stall on getting it. That usually meant expensive watches or someone’s wallet, though, but the general idea was there.

But because it is Dragonus, T.B sits on his hands and does nothing. He’s aware how stupid it is, pining so hard after someone he knows, worst case scenario, would at least listen and let him down gently, but even that’s too much. Dragonus is good and kind and smart and stays up playing his favorite video games late enough after T.B himself, resident night demon, has said goodnight. He names his adopted fluffy chicken Phoenix because he thought she would like something powerful. He makes sure T.B has back support before laying on him for hours on end to binge watch movies. He drinks sangria and wears a glow stick halo at a club. T.B’s jaw clenches, and that stupid  _ guiltshamegreed _ kicks in again and makes his stomach turn.

He’s not sure which part is more cliche, pining after his best friend or feeling on the edge of tears alone at a bar. No doubt someone else here would love to occupy his time and distract him from making googoo eyes, but T.B was nothing if not a good damn friend. Maybe keeping it all a secret isn’t the best, rationally, but it’s the simple fact that Dragonus is good and T.B is not. 

Maybe. It’s completely possible T.B is just a pussy.

T.B sips his coke either way, trying to let go of the overwhelmingly dour thoughts and at least enjoy a night out. The music is poppy and fun, trying to capture the last bit of summer before September overtakes the city and turns everything shitty and cold. The bar pressed against his back shakes ever so slightly whenever the crowd jumps to the beat of a new song, and he’s hard pressed to hear anything other than the occasional yell over indie lyrics. He’s pretty numb to the volume of it all, though he’s pretty sure that’s because his ear drums blew out ages ago with all the screamo and horrendous metal he was so fond of in high school. At least he’s not one of  _ those _ people who get to the club and complain immediately it’s too loud, but that’s none of his business.

Single player drinking games aren’t exactly in high stock, but T.B’s gotten pretty good at his own. Making up stories about someone he sees at the bar alone, drinking at the sight of a particular item of clothing, or even miming a couple having a rather animated argument.  _ That _ one was fun, and he’d had Dragonus in stitches while explaining the reason they were fighting was all because of a disagreement if foxes were canines or felines. There was also the time he spun a whole life story for a woman only wearing one glove while sipping her drink, the tale of an orphaned girl turned the most elusive jewel thief in the world and her trademark being a single glove left in place of the stolen goods. 

It was ruined moments later when someone trying to hit on her asked, and she said there was a draft above hitting her hand. Oh well.

This time, T.B picks a word from the current song and counts it out while sipping his drink. He remembers one time they played ‘ _ Roxanne _ ’ and he was actually drinking that night, and how he got toasted off of rum shots within an hour. He picks the word  _ ‘name’ _ out of the current song, vaguely familiar by the singer's’ voice as he sips four times in a row because of the particular remix. T.B taps the side of his bottle with one finger along to the words, placing the rest of the song around it. 

_ I wanna testify, scream in the holy light- you bring me back to life! And it’s all in the name of- _

T.B stops listening, and takes a delayed sip.

He catches Dragonus moving, and looks away from the crowd around him as the blond wiggles his way off the dance floor. He looks sweaty and elated, grinning while the neon backlight puts him in singular focus to T.B. He’s barely able to uncross his arms and get his drink out of the way before Dragonus plops himself in his lap, buzzing with energy as he leans over the bar and orders another sangria. He’s let his hair down, slight wavy from his braid, and hooks his arm around T.B’s neck to keep himself from falling.

“Having fun?” Dragonus asks, leaning out of the way as T.B maneuvers his coke back into the hand not supporting Dragonus’ body. His sangria slides across the bar a moment later, and he holds it with both hands carefully.

“Absolutely euphoric,” T.B replies, unable to keep a smile off his face when Dragonus laughs. “You?”

Dragonus takes a contemplative sip, bright blue straw pinching in his teeth before he answers. “Jubilant.”

He stays for the rest of his drink, foot bouncing against the bottom rung of the stool with restless energy. T.B can tell he still wants to dance and there’s plenty of party left in him, but the break to rehydrate and soothe with someone familiar is standard Dragonus Protocol. T.B offers him a sip of coke, which he gladly takes, but refuses to let him have a return sip of sangria. “You’re  _ driving _ ,” he says as if T.B’s just done him a great offense, and T.B laughs into his glass bottle. Not that he’s particularly fond of red wine anyway.

T.B tucks the metal cap into his pocket before ordering a root beer this time, still holding onto Dragonus with one arm while watching him spear chunks of pineapple and peach with his straw. Now that he’s closer, T.B can see the glow stick wings alternate blue and green, held together with little purple connectors with a logo too small to read. The elastic straps pull at the sleeves of Dragonus’ shirt, so T.B flips them the right way and fixes it to lay smooth against his back. Dragonus looks over his shoulder at what T.B’s fiddling with, and T.B sees the loop around his head matches the colors of his wings, catching stray hairs and keeping a lock tucked behind his ear.

“How do I look?” Dragonus asks, cheeky grin in place. A million words run through T.B’s head automatically, so close his best friend and smelling the pineapple he just ate like it was on his own tongue. Like an angel is his first thought, it always is, especially when he’s wearing goofy wings and a halo and smiling and he looks so  _ beautiful- _ “Ready to dance,” T.B says instead, clamping down on those thoughts like a vice while his hands loosen in response. 

Dragonus hops off his lap and gives a twirl, about to lean in and kiss T.B’s cheek before departing again when he remembers the empty sangria glass in his hand. T.B holds his hand out for it dutifully while he watches Dragonus fish for his wallet and pay for the drink, much like every other time they go out together. Dragonus had told him once that he refused to open a tab and paid for his drink immediately every time, as it  _ must _ be easier for the bartender and he could tip easier that way. Like the wholesome lawful good he is.

T.B puts the glass back on the bar behind him, and Dragonus stuffs a bill in the tip jar with minimal fumbling. He ties his hair back up into a ponytail, most likely to get it to stop sticking to the back of his neck, and T.B is helpless to trace his eyes from the nape of Dragonus’ neck to the edge of his tattoos peaking above his shirt collar.

“Just a few more songs,” Dragonus says then, and T.B tries to nod as coolly as possible. It’s been a while at this point, and quite honestly T.B wants to go home and wallow in his sorrows alone, but letting Dragonus de-stress in some way is the least he can do. Even if that de-stressing is going home with a pretty girl that’s decidedly not T.B. Oh well.

In the name of love, he supposes.

He props his elbow up on one knee so Dragonus is still in his line of sight, and passes the next few songs playing Little Alchemist 2. He’s been stuck in a loop to try and create  _ grass _ of all things lately, combining a number of little cartoon elements in vain, and even though it’s frustrating it’s enough to keep pathetic thoughts at bay. Getting sad at a bar twice in one night is a lot even for him.

Except he can’t stop. The minute T.B thinks he’s fine and he can go back to trying to be a normal good friend is the minute those sickly and envious feelings prey on him again. He feels- stupid. And useless. He’s barely able to keep the best friend thing together when he’s got all these feelings, and the sense of failing the one person he cares about most makes his chest hurt. T.B wants to be a good friend, he really does. Making Dragonus laugh and cheering him out of stupors after bad grades, or listening to him enthuse about a new game, or simply just  _ being  _ there for him is fulfilling. He loves Dragonus, one way or another. He should be happy about it.

The simple answer is he’s greedy. T.B can’t help but want more, want to hold his hand and kiss him and be in his bed, want to call him  _ ‘Angel’ _ without prefacing it with a joke, want him to want T.B back. It’s the selfishness that kills him, really, when T.B is alone and lying in the dark with nothing to distract himself from it, selfish to want to put himself that high in Dragonus’ life. He’s already taken so much, more than he deserves from someone so much better and kinder and just plain good, really. It was just like T.B to take and take without knowing how much he already has. They’re already friends-  _ best _ friends, why can he not be happy with that? 

T.B grinds the palm of his hand into his eyes so hard he sees spots, but it’s a welcome distraction from the sting he was feeling moments before. The ache in his chest has spread out to his fingertips and down to his feet, turning his whole body into a mishmash of sourness and longing. He feels so fucking  _ shitty. _ He’s here for Dragonus, to help cheer him up, to make sure he’s safe, to be supportive, so why is T.B nearly crying at the bar cuz he’s too stupid to  _ do something about it- _

He tries to breathe. Turns his face away from the dance floor for a moment to suck in air and flood the sore feeling in his lungs with sweaty club air, even if he’s desperate for the cold evening outside to smack him in the face and tell him to get it together. Compartmentalizing is hard when he’s not alone, and even harder when the thing he’s trying to ignore is right in front of him and totally oblivious. Not that he would ever blame Dragonus for that.

T.B is good at secrets.

He chugs the rest of his drink, tucking the metal cap into his pocket alongside the other and pretending for a moment it’s something he lifted off a stranger to try and take the edge off. He doesn’t order another, crossing his arms and closing his eyes just for a moment to focus on the headache starting to pound against his temple. It leaves relatively quick, but T.B is pretty sure the hurt will linger for a while.

However the moment he opens his eyes to at least pretend to be vigilant, Dragonus is coming near again. It takes T.B a moment to realize how late it’s gotten so quickly, and that both the dance floor and the bar have cleared so much while he was pitying himself. He pulls another stool close with his foot, and Dragonus plops into it without hesitating. T.B takes a moment to gaze at the rest of the club, emptying steadily, before turning his full attention to his friend.

It’s easy to push aside his own thoughts when T.B realizes Dragonus is upset. Sad drunk, specifically. He leans against the bar heavily, cheek against his palm and stares morosely at a coaster. His halo and wings are gone, too, most likely returned to the girls he was dancing with. T.B leans closer, his hand resting on Dragonus’ shoulder blade comfortingly and mirroring his posture with one elbow on the bar. Focusing on someone else being upset was T.B’s speciality, and his own thoughts seem miles away at the moment.

“Struck out?” T.B asks quietly. Dragonus nods in response, and T.B runs his palm down his back, along the tattooed feathers hidden by his shirt.

“Back home?” T.B asks a moment later. Dragonus nods again, sliding off the stool while T.B followed. His legs ached from sitting for so long, but it wasn’t too long from here to his car, even with a drunk best friend in tow. Dragonus’ arm loops around his middle, too short to comfortably hang onto T.B’s shoulders, and lets himself be steered outside.

The evening fall air nips at T.B even with a jacket on, and he can hear Dragonus grumble at it as well. He can’t help but laugh a little, shielding Dragonus as best as he can while hurriedly crossing the road and unlocking the car. T.B holds the door open, letting the blond crawl in first and fumble with the seat belt before T.B peels his patch-covered jacket off and holds it out. Dragonus makes a thankful noise and drapes it over himself.

T.B folds himself into the car afterwards, starting the engine and quickly following it with the heater to chase away the last bit of chill. The drive is easy, after he makes sure Dragonus is buckled in properly, and he resorts to silent autopilot on the way home.

When Dragonus hurts, T.B does too. Maybe it was because empathy was never his strong suite before they were friends, but it gets him so hard in times like this he wants to cry. He knows how Dragonus was when he was upset, especially when things were already bad enough- not that T.B would blame him, he’s well aware of the doubts and anxiety that plague his best friend, but it was still hard to see. Even now, bundled up under his jacket, Dragonus retracts into himself. T.B feels so lost and helpless sometimes, only able to watch as he got more distant and tried to convince himself he didn’t deserve help. It’s entirely false, but T.B feels like such a stumbling bull trying to help, afraid only that he’ll make things worse.

It’s unfair. T.B knew well enough that barely anything is ever fair, but it was different to see so close. Dragonus is funny and intelligent and cares so damn much that it just seems so unnecessarily cruel that he couldn’t  _ see _ that. It makes T.B’s chest ache when he sees Dragonus like this, unaware of how much better he deserved and how good he truly is. T.B loves him so fucking  _ much _ , yet he has no clue how to help.  _ Guiltshamegreed _ .

T.B drives in silence. They’re close to home now, he can practically drive the last few turns into the apartment complex with his closed and his hands tied behind his back. Dragonus is quiet beside him, his mouth covered by the collar of T.B’s jacket and his eyes glued to the window and watching everything fly past them. T.B knows well enough at this point it’s not simply because of a girl, and he can practically see the claws of something digging into Dragonus’ head to try and drag him under. 

T.B wishes he could beat them all back with his own hands, squash down every preying demon and perceived flaw and just help him  _ see _ .

Nearly every window is dark in both apartments when T.B parks. Only a few cars that he recognizes as people who work night shifts are working, and the parking lot is completely dark. He turns his phone flashlight on before getting out, rounding the trunk to help Dragonus out and make sure the car is locked before heading towards the nearest door. He has to fish his keys out from his jacket pocket, hanging limply off of Dragonus before they get inside. The Radiant complex always strikes T.B as somehow nicer, even though he’s familiar enough with both to know they’re completely the same. 

They climb to the third floor together, trying not to creak any of the stairs and let the doors fall shut quietly, and Dragonus digs around in his back pocket for the apartment keys and holding them out to T.B. The tiny hamsa charm T.B got him a couple years ago fits between his fingers as he turns the lock and pushes the door open quietly, letting Dragonus enter first before letting it fall shut in the same fashion.

The lights are off inside, and Dragonus doesn’t bother to turn any on while standing in the little foyer. His shoes come off easy, and T.B gently nudges Dragonus towards the closed door of his room while taking himself to the kitchen for a glass of water. Dragonus does so, and T.B spots Phoenix watching him from her nest from all the commotion. Somehow, it feels like the worst scrutiny of the night.

T.B follows Dragonus to his room a minute later, putting the water on his bedside table and averting his eyes while his best friend kicks off his jeans and crawls clumsily into bed. T.B picks his jacket up from the foot of the bed, folding it over his forearm and making sure there’s nothing that could be tripped on if Dragonus needs to get up suddenly. He opens his mouth to speak, to tell Dragonus he’ll stay the night just in case when he’s cut off.

“Thanks, Tibs.” Dragonus sounds muffled and quiet, but there’s no mistaking he spoke. T.B shakes his head, about to respond with his usual  _ ‘no problem’ _ when- “Sorry for tonight.”

T.B doesn’t know what he’s sorry for, if anything he should be apologizing for sulking the whole night and not being a normal human being, but it’s clear both of them are dealing with something here. “S’okay, Dragonus.” He scoots back a few feet towards the door, ready to sleep on the couch and stare at the ceiling all night until sleep takes pity on him and knocks him out when Dragonus speaks up again.

“T?”

“Hm?”

“M’just… tired of being alone.”

And T.B- hesitates. He shouldn’t. He should tell Dragonus he’ll be outside if he needs anything. He should close the door quietly and let him rest. He should continue just being a normal supportive friend. He shouldn’t hesitate like this, hanging in Dragonus’ doorway like some kind of demon, being pulled apart inside because he’s too scared to tell his best friend he’s in love with him but too in love to not do anything. T.B opens his mouth to say goodnight.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“Mhm,” Dragonus mumbles back, and T.B’s hands shake as he re-enters the room and puts his jacket down quietly, pulling off his shoes and walking what feels like a mile to the other side of the bed so he can crawl under the blanket. Dragonus curls against his chest, and T.B only prays it helps one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title song: in the name of love - bebe rexha & martin garrix
> 
> so! i'm pretty certain i'm going to stick to a monthly update schedule though give myself some flexibility depending on what i'm feeling, but a month per chapter seems good with my current schedule! i hope you all enjoy t.b getting utterly wrecked in the meanwhile :)
> 
> remember to follow my dota/apartment au twitter @aprtmntdefender!
> 
> edited by the lovely @sheliloque and dedicated to my bestest friend rose


	5. Author's note

So if it wasn't obvious by how I haven't updated in months, I'm not able to keep up with the fic anymore. Unfortunately, Dota doesn't remain in my interests long or strong enough for me to keep updating regularly or even thinking about it. I love this fic and what I've written and thought about very much, but I can't keep to updating once a year during TI. I love dota, but just not enough to continue doing this, and I'm very sorry about that! For everyone who enjoyed and left comments or kudos, thank you very much, you definitely made writing it much more rewarding. 

The AU definitely still exists, and I may write drabbles or smaller fics in the universe. My twitter for dota/the fic still exists at @aprtmntdefender if you want to talk to me about it/ask questions! Dota will always have a place in my mind.

**Author's Note:**

> please read final chapter
> 
> you can find me on twitter @aprtmntdefender


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